I wondered and felt amused at the idea, and do not know when I fell asleep or how long I slept; but I suddenly awoke with a start, though I heard no sound and saw no intruder—only the steady bright star on the hilltop had set, and the dim light of the new moon was stealthily entering ​the room through the open window, as if ashamed of its intrusion. He is on his way to visit his aunt in the Sundarbans islands, a collection of tiny islands connected by a maze of rivers. It is set in blank verse with stanzas that rhymed in between. With quick steps I climbed the stairs, and entered the room. A few concerned ghosts or the macabre, as told by a narrator similar to Tagore ("The Hungry Stones") or written in the third person ("Living or Dead?"). A wild gust of wind, laden with all the fragrance of hills and woods, would put out my light, and I would fling aside my dress and lie down on my bed, my eyes closed and my body thrilling with delight, and there around me in the breeze, amid all the perfume of the woods and hills, floated through the silent gloom many a caress and many a kiss and many a tender touch of hands, and gentle murmurs in my ears, and fragrant breaths on my brow; or a ​sweetly-perfumed kerchief was wafted again and again on my cheeks. The story of The Hungry Stones is a weird experience of a cotton-collector in a medieval pleasure-palace who resides a few days there. Stand back!! while he went along the lonely road. With Arundhati Devi, Soumitra Chatterjee, Chhabi Biswas, Radhamohan Bhattacharya. The Hungry Stones tells the story of a tax collector who is sent to live and work in a small town. All is false! A swift turn of her neck, a quick eager glance of intense passion and pain glowing in her large dark eyes, just a suspicion of speech on her dainty red lips, her figure, fair and slim, crowned with youth like a blossoming creeper, quickly uplifted in her graceful tilting gait, a dazzling flash of pain and craving and esctasy, a smile and a glance and a blaze of jewels and silk, and she melted away. It was the beginning of summer, and the market ​being dull I had no work to do. I felt as if in the curious apartments of that vast edifice the fragments of a beautiful story, which I could follow for some distance, but of which I could never see the end, flew about in a sudden gust of the vernal breeze. I said: "The man evidently took us for fools and imposed upon us out of fun. The dark rooms were looking sullen as if they had taken offence. Download for offline reading, highlight, bookmark or take notes while you read The Hungry Stones and Other Stories. This collector of the cotton duties, a disposer of all things, is the narrator of his own story and the two fellow passengers are the listeners. Kanai Dutt, an upper-class translator from New Delhi, stands on a crowded train platform in Calcutta. This is a story that reveals the trap that is formed by materialistic desires and bodily lusts for a human being. She it was who had saffron-coloured paijamas, white ruddy soft feet in goldembroidered slippers with curved toes, a close-fitting bodice wrought with gold, a red cap, from which a golden frill fell on her snowy brow and cheeks. I laughed in great glee at my curious illusion, as I sat over the newspaper at my camp-table, lighted by the kerosene lamp. Barich is a lovely place. What I gathered from that old man was this: That at one time countless unrequited unsatisfied longings and lurid flames of ​ing pleasure raged within that palace, and that the curse of all the heart-aches and blasted hopes had made its every stone thirsty and hungry, eager to swallow up like a famished ogress any living man who might chance to approach. The house had such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near it after dark. The scene is at the waiting room in a rail station. It is but the vast and ​solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with solitude and deprived of the society of women. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their quick unbodied steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves into the river, did not go back wringing their dripping robes as they went. That I, that is to say, Srijut So-and-so, the eldest son of So-and-so of blessed memory, should be drawing a monthly salary of Rs. Searchable etext. 450 per mensem as my salary. https://en.wikisource.org/w/index.php?title=The_Hungry_Stones_and_Other_Stories/The_Hungry_Stones&oldid=10616802, Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License. I said: "No, I can stay here no longer." The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet been lighted. Srijut then offers to tell the narrator and the narrator's friend a story, and it is in that story that we meet the rest of the cast of characters. (A poetic translation of a story by Rabindranath Tagore, kśhdhārto pāśhāņa, Hungry Stones, for convenience split in 13 parts) . Barich is a lovely place. I do not know whether he thought me mad, but it came back to me at once ​that I was in very deed Srijut So-and-so, son of Soand-so of blessed memory, and that, while our poets, great and small, alone could say whether inside or outside the earth there was a region where unseen fountains perpetually played and fairy guitars, struck by invisible fingers, sent forth an eternal harmony, this at any rate was certain, that I collected duties at the cotton market at Barich, and earned thereby Rs. This page was last edited on 14 November 2020, at 15:05. Now, Karim Khan, the old clerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode there. The night was cloudy and moonless. By what cool spring, under the shade of what date-groves, wast thou born—in the lap of what homeless wanderer in the desert? Break through these doors of hard illusion, deathlike slumber and fruitless dreams, ​place me by your side on the saddle, press me to your heart, and, riding through hills and woods and across the river, take me to the warm radiance of your sunny rooms above!". -- "We crown thee king" -- The renunciation -- The Cabuliwallah [The Fruitseller from Cabul]. Such was the abrupt close of one of my Arabian Nights; but there were yet a thousand nights left. O lovely ethereal apparition! If you would only look into them, then your reading and writing would go to the winds." All is false!! Stand back!! There was not a breath of wind anywhere, and the still air was laden with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on the hills close by. ", The man answered nothing, but pushing me aside went round and round with his frantic cry, like a bird flying fascinated about the jaws of a snake, and made a desperate effort to warn himself by repeating: "Stand back! Then followed a great discord between my days and nights. But our newly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers." The Hungry Stones is based on Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s short story Kshudhita Pashan, which was originally published in 1895.KDT has reimagined its 1994 production with all new choreography and set design. Suddenly it came to me that perhaps he also had once lived in that house, and that, though he had gone mad, he came there every day, and went round and round, fascinated by the weird spell cast by the marble demon. My heart was full of contrition, but there was no one to whom I could lay it bare, or of whom I could ask forgiveness. had built this lonely palace for his pleasure and luxury. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a broad patch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening; on this side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters were glistening. Amazon Reviews. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolate hall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgle of fountains plashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the guitar, the jingle of ornaments and the tinkle of anklets, the clang of bells tolling the hours, the distant note of nahabat, the din of the crystal pendants of chandeliers shaken by the breeze, the song of bulbuls from the cages in the corridors, the cackle of storks in the gardens, all creating round me a strange unearthly music. I followed breathless and with silent steps my invisible guide—I cannot now say where. A heavy silence was reigning within. Suddenly at this moment that crazy Meher Ali screamed out: "Stand back! The story is about a tax collector, Srijut, who is sent to a small town and stays at a former palace which is believed to be haunted. Where didst thou flourish and when? My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held up a fringe of the screen. 5 out of 5 stars 5.0 out of 5.0 5 Stars 1 4 Stars 0 3 Stars 0 2 Stars 0 1 Stars 0 Reviews - Please select the tabs below to change the source of reviews. Whence arose this inconsolable grief? IX Let me not delve deep on what panned out hence, The gloom of nights deepened still further dense, And there was time I felt when like a pawn, I wandered about the dark rooms with a vacant mind. The river was perfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waters were stirred suddenly by the splash of many an arm jingling with bracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at one another, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up in showers of pearl. When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative policy, I threw up my post ​at Junagarh, and entered the service of the Nizam of Hyderabad, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man, collector of cotton duties at Barich. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe; but I felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly and imperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric juice. It is set in blank verse with stanzas that rhymed in between. "Hungry Stones" (Bengali: Kshudhita Pashan or Khudito Pashan) is a Bengali short story written by Rabindranath Tagore in 1895. Then, O, thou flower of the desert, swept away by the blood-stained dazzling ocean of grandeur, with its foam of jealousy, its rocks and shoals of intrigue, on what shore of cruel death wast thou cast, or in what other land more splendid and more cruel? All is false! The Hungry Tide Chapters 1-10 Summary & Analysis. I noticed that it stopped of itself at the gate of the marble palace just at the hour of twilight. The desolate halls of the palace banged their doors, and moaned in the bitterness of anguish. An English gentleman, apparently just aroused from slumber, was looking out of a first-class carriage endeavouring to read the name of the station. From time to time there was a deep thud, as the river-banks crumbled. And when I was very depressed, or if at any time the light of my devotion became dim, and I pitied my evil fate, then I made my mind utter these sentences, one by one, as a child repeats a story that is told. I threw my pen down, closed my ledgers, got into my dog-cart, and drove away. About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. What endless dark and narrow passages, what long corridors, what silent and solemn audience-chambers and close secret cells I crossed! Then slowly a mysterious serpent would twist her stupefying coils about me; and heaving a heavy sigh, I would lapse into insensibility, and then into a profound slumber. The Devotee” ― Rabindranath Tagore, The Hungry Stones … ​The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust of wind, and the still surface of the Susta rippled and curled like the hair of a nymph, and from the woods wrapt in the evening gloom there came forth a simultaneous murmur, as though they were awakening from a black dream. He fails to realize that the stones come to life each night, engulfing anyone that dares to trespass. As we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the man struck us dumb with wonder. Like fragrance wafted away by the wind they were dispersed by a single breath of the spring. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near the water's edge below the steps. (A poetic translation of a story by Rabindranath Tagore, kśhdhārto pāśhāņa, Hungry Stones, for convenience split in 13 parts) . Read the full-text online edition of The Hungry Stones: And Other Stories (1916). The hungry river, like an enormous serpent, swallowed down terraces, villages, cornfields, and covered with its flood the tall grasses and wild casuarinas on the sand-banks. "We Crown Thee King" The Renunciation The Cabuliwallah [The Fruitseller from Cabul] Preface: The stories contained in this volume were translated by several hands. The Hungry Stones And Other Stories by Rabindranath Tagore. I felt a thrill at my heart—I cannot say whether the excitement was due to fear or delight or curiosity. The Hungry Stones was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Wed, Aug 07, 2019 From his dress and bearing we took him at first for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard him talk. As evening approached I grew absent-minded; I felt as if I had an appointment to keep; and the ​work of examining the cotton accounts seemed wholly useless; even the Nizamat[3]of the Nizam did not appear to be of much worth. The Hungry Stones and Other Stories: The Kingdom of Cards, II ; Cite. In the dense gloom within I could distinctly feel that a woman was lying on her face on the carpet below the bed—clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair with desperate fingers. ... "Tell me, mother, a story of some very far-off land." As we got into a second-class carriage, ​we had no chance of finding out who the man was nor what was the end of his story. No Reviews are Available. The Last Harvest: Paintings of Rabindranath Tagore, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Hungry_Stones&oldid=963729112, Articles containing Bengali-language text, Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License, This page was last edited on 21 June 2020, at 13:23. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of that invisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old, vanished in a flash. What infinite grandeur, what endless servitude! When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting-room for the connection. Like “You never look at these flowers; therefore they become stale to you. I will tell you what it is, but first you must hear the history of a young Persian girl who once lived in that pleasuredome. LibriVox recording of The Hungry Stones and Other Stories, by Rabindranath Tagore. I wished I had a guitar to which I could sing to the unknown: "O fire, the poor moth that made a vain effort to fly away has come back to thee! Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna and the twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrant spray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse of a fair damsel. 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